Fat Boy
by Eveilae
Summary: [InoShikaCho] Choji's progression from Fat Boy to a third of a yummy sweetcake. [AU]


_I do not own Naruto or the song Fat Boy by Jewel._

I love Choji (all Kitty's fault BTW XD) but I think this is one of the few Choji-centric fics I've written. The closest I've come to this is InoShikaCho, which I have written on occasion. I think I wrote this for Kitty, acutally. Which would make sense, the Cho-fangirl that she is.

**Fat Boy**

**Fat boy goes to the pool, sees his reflection, doesn't know what to do. He feels little inside, and filled with pride. Ooh, fragile flame, and no one sees the same. Fat boy goes about his day, trying think of funny things to say, like _this is just a game I play_ and _I like me this way_. Ooh, fragile flame, when no one feels the same. Sleep, don't think, just eat. You're daddy's little boy; you're mama's pride and joy. You know they love ya, but not because they hold ya. And fat boy says _wouldn't it be nice if I could melt myself like ice, or outrun my skin and just be pure wind_. Ooh, fragile flame, sometimes I feel the same.**

Choji looked down at the picture in his hand, crumpled slightly over the years. It was one of his most prized possessions, this one photo. Every time he gazed into it he saw something different.

One day, he'd think he'd see Shikamaru sort-of smiling at him, and the next he'd realize that the boy in the photograph is only glaring.

Or perhaps Ino's hand had been on the verge of grasping his own, and pulling it close, and him with it. Before an hour had passed, he would realize it was only hanging there, so close to his, because she'd been swinging it in her boredom.

He wouldn't call them his best friends, because they weren't. No, when Ino saw him in the hallway, she'd look right past him and squeal painfully loud at some friends she'd spotted across the hall. When Shikamaru saw him, he'd sort of half-grunt a greeting as if in pity, and turn away.

Shikamaru's response almost hurt more. The boy would rather be alone than with Choji, and to make things worse, he _pitied_ him. Choji didn't want pity, he wanted friendship and hugs and sleepovers, like all the other kids had.

All he got were whole plates of cookies from his mother, emptied in five minutes flat.

This was grammar school.

Choji and Shikamaru gazed at each other in surprise, Choji's hand still placed gingerly on the lanky boy's knee. Both their faces were flushed, but generally pleased. This was one of Choji's most prized possessions, this sensation. When Shikamaru leaned over to press his thin lips against his own one more time, he felt it differently.

Their sleepovers were usually uneventful, with Shikamaru too lazy to stay up late and Choji too subdued to argue with him. Yet, this time, Shikamaru had put off sleep for a little while, and he knelt in front of Choji. He had a question, he told Choji in a near whisper, as if the mere idea of anyone overhearing him made him ill.

What was it like to kiss someone?

Why would he ask _Choji_? Was it likely a fatass like him had ever gotten kissed by anyone but an overzealous grandmother? He didn't say this, but he thought it, crunching on a chip as he stalled. Just because he knew this, and Shikamaru probably knew this, didn't mean he wanted to _say_ it.

His hand was reaching for another chip when Shikamaru pushed himself forward and presse his face violently towards Choji's. His lips were hesitant and slow, basically just twitching in a sad attempt at finding out what that obscure thing _kiss_ meant.

He didn't know how he knew, but Choji took more control in that one minute than he had his whole life, tucking Shikamaru's lower lip between his own, his large hand falling on Shikamaru's leg to hold himself up, to move closer to the boy that just _might've_ be trembling.

Then again. Again. By the time they'd broken apart for the last time, silently exchanging happy compliments before tucking themselves into their own little corners of the room, Choji felt he knew more than kissing. He knew growing up.

This was junior high.

Choji, Shikamaru and Ino gaped down at the torrents of water below them. While Shikamaru pushed away from the railings before he keeled over and died of motion sickness, Ino and Choji didn't look away from the sea not so far beneath them. This was one of Choji's prized possessions, this memory.

It was so large, so encompassing. The ocean could eat him up as easily and quickly as he could a potato chip, and with as much consequence. It made him feel very, very small, and that was a feeling he treasured.

Ino had scooted closer, and even though they were almost shoulder to shoulder, neither of them seemed bothered by the proximity. "Isn't it beautiful?" she whispered, the fingers in her left hand interlacing themselves between Choji's thick ones. She did this without even looking away from the deep depths, or pausing in her speech.

Choji didn't seem to notice it much either. "It's terrible," he agreed slowly, and the two of them didn't—or couldn't—divert their eyes. It was too beautiful, it was too horrible, like the mangled corpse of a lover you can't stop yourself from looking at.

Before the two of them could fall over the edge while immersed each in their own secret little thoughts, Shikamaru dragged the two of them off. He wanted cuddles, and when was a better time than while their parents drank together?

This was high school.

And this is now.

Choji glares at the clock from over the blonde hair of his lover's head. He lets his own head (and its mass of golden brown hair) fall back down onto the leg he's made into a pillow, deciding that getting to work late _one_ day won't get him fired.

They're two of his most prize possessions, these two. This boy-turned-man and this girl-turned-woman, splayed out in all their morning loveliness before him. Yes, he thinks as his lets his hand run through the soft locks and his fingers tickle the underside of one pale foot, and he'll guard them greedily like a dragon with its horde.

Back then, that's not what matters. The abuse, the isolation, the consolation of food of childhood are all things too far behind him to be thought of, too small in the distance to make out. What's important is the _now_, the warm feeling of Ino's legs sharing warmth with his under the blanket, the grunts Shikamaru makes as his foot twitches from Choji's ministrations.

When Ino finally flips onto her side to face him, beautiful and terrible with her matted hair and smudged makeup that she'd forgotten to take off the night before, and she kisses him by way of greeting, he knows the two of them are looking straight ahead with him. When Shikamaru slips underneath the covers to join their legs, he knows the two of them aren't look back, either.

And _that's_ what matters.

_I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me._


End file.
